


By Any Craft That We Here Possess

by Numendil



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, As if Normal Fëanor Isn't Bad Enough, Gen, Humor, Ringlord!Fëanor, Using the Ring Against Sauron, is a bad idea, pretty much crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 21:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16071878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Numendil/pseuds/Numendil
Summary: The Council of Elrond gets some much-needed assistance.Or, frustrated by the failure of the Istari, the Valar reluctantly send the one person who can actually do something about the situation without destroying a continent.





	1. Chapter 1

‘But Gandalf has revealed to us that we cannot destroy it by any craft that we here possess,’ said Elrond. ‘And they who dwell beyond the Sea would not receive it: for good or ill it belongs to Middle-earth; it is for us who still dwell here to deal with it.’

‘Speak not of what may and may not be accomplished by craft,’ said a voice somewhere to Frodo’s left, proud and powerful, and commanding the attention of all who heard it. ‘Nor say that the West has left the fate of Middle-earth to thee, Elrond; for not all who dwell there are so prone to inaction.’

All heads turned to behold the stranger who had intruded upon their council. He was an Elf: that much was clear at once; a High Elf of the same kindred as Glorfindel, but of a lineage more ancient and nobler yet. His robes were red, too fine to be the work of Middle-earth, and embroidered upon the breast in gold with the device of an eight-pointed star. The Elven-light that shone in his eyes burned like a fierce fire, and Frodo feared that he might be consumed if he looked too long. It was plain enough that the intruder came as a friend, but even Master Elrond seemed slightly terrified by him, or at least by what his coming portended.

Gandalf was the first to speak: he bowed deeply, and greeted the stranger in the High-Elven tongue. Frodo could make out only one word, _Fëanáro_ ; but that word, if his guess at its translation were accurate, was sufficient to explain the shock and awe of all the Wise gathered at Elrond’s table. Every hobbit-child who knew his letters knew the name of Fëanor, and Frodo had learned enough of the Elder Days to put some history with the name, history that had been ancient when Elrond himself had been young. Even accepting the rumoured ability of the Elves to return from death, his appearance at this Council was, to put it mildly, quite astonishing.

‘Lord Fëanor,’ said Elrond, biting back his own astonishment. ‘Your coming here was most unexpected, but emissaries from the West are always welcome in Rivendell. You are welcome to join our Council, if you have not come to disrupt it.’

‘I am no more an emissary of the West than I was the last time I came to these shores,’ said Fëanor, ‘but I have come, nonetheless, to put an end to this council’s debate: I can destroy the Ring.’

‘Perhaps Fëanor might destroy the One Ring; it would not surprise me,’ said Glorfindel. ‘But how may we know that you are indeed he, whose return I had not expected ere the Last Battle, and not some impostor sent to take the Ring to the Enemy?’

Fëanor laughed. ‘Your Enemy has not the power to take my form,’ he said. ‘Even in the days of his youth, when my return might have driven the Ñoldor to civil war, he did not dare. Nay, I am who I seem to be: Curufinwë Fëanáro, son of Finwë, rightwise born King of the Ñoldor, returned from death. If I bring with me the Last Battle, I know it not; I think that, rather, my return has been permitted that I may prevent it.’

‘The Last Battle!’ exclaimed Bilbo. ‘I had hoped that such a thing would be long after my time, but after all that’s happened, mind you, I shouldn’t be half surprised by it!’

‘I do not think the End is quite upon us, dark as these times may seem,’ said Gandalf. ‘Prophecies—or foolish speculation—aside, I am satisfied that Fëanáro is who he claims to be. Though I would very much like to hear the tale of how he came to be standing before us today.’

‘It was, of course, with reluctance that the Valar permitted my return,’ said Fëanor. ‘When I was in the Halls, my mother and I together helped to remake the Weaver’s loom so that it might record the future as well as the past. Not the certain future: with Men involved things are never so simple as that. But we could see possibilities. We walked all the roads that might have led forward from this day if no help came from the West. Fourteen million six hundred and five ends we saw, many of them bleaker than I will tell.’

‘And in how many were the Free People victorious?’ asked Elrond.

‘One.’

‘Those are long odds,’ said Gandalf. ‘But even in the darkest places there is hope: the world is ruled by a power greater than chance, Fëanáro.’

‘Some may trust those odds, and call it hope,’ said Fëanor. ‘I call it profound irresponsibility, and so too—eventually—did the Valar. At the pleading of my mother and Lady Nienna, I was sent over the Sea to your aid.’

‘If you can indeed unmake the Ring without sending it to Mordor,’ said Elrond, ‘I will bid Frodo give it to you. But I cannot deny that I fear to do so. The Ring is a greater temptation to the great than it is to the small; I myself fear to touch it, and you are greater than I.’

Again Fëanor laughed, and said, ‘The Ruling Ring, I know, tempts the bearer according to his ambition, and I am very ambitious indeed. But over me it hath no power: my ambition, and my love, are for the works of hands and mind, and in that, the Ring can give me only Thauron’s skill.’ He pronounced the Dark Lord’s name strangely. ‘What shall the maker of this Ring offer me, who wrought the Silmarils long ago?’

‘How long do you require for this undertaking?’ asked Elrond. ‘Already the strength of Sauron is growing too great for the kingdoms of Men to withstand.’

‘Had I my workshop in Tirion,’ said Fëanor, ‘half an hour. But I have it not, nor any of my books of lore: the great city of the Ñoldor was buried along with the Númenórean army.’

‘Oh,’ said Aragorn. ‘Sorry about that.’

* * *

Under Fëanor’s direction, Rivendell’s forge was built almost anew as autumn faded to winter. Many new machines of strange purpose were constructed by the Elves, and a great water-wheel was placed to draw the power of the rushing river. Frodo preferred to stay away from whatever they were doing: Hobbits were not the least bit fond of machines, least of all strange ones. Nonetheless, he did speak to Fëanor, when he could find him. The Elf was not so frightening up close as he had been at first, though he still seemed dangerously intense for Hobbitish tastes. From their brief conversations Frodo learned as much about the Elder Days as Bilbo or even Gandalf had ever told him: of the Blessed Realm beyond the Sea and the fair days before the rising of the Sun. Yet it seemed that Fëanor concealed more than he told. As the building was completed he was seen less and less, as he disappeared into the new-built workshop working on the Ring. At last he emerged, two months to the day after his first appearance in Rivendell, and on that fine winter morning a new Council was held.

‘I have won victory over the ring,’ declared Fëanor, ‘though not utterly. The Three, the Seven, and the Nine are freed from its dominion: the Elven-realms of Middle-earth shall endure for ever free, and the Nazgûl, those tortured souls of Men, shall pass beyond the circles of the World as they were made to do. Thauron’s hold upon his orcish slaves is broken, and they will flee, or slay themselves, or hide in lightless places until the World’s end. All that remain of his forces are his allies among Men, and those too shall soon see the wisdom of fleeing, or of suing for mercy.’

‘Saruman, too, has surrendered,’ said Gandalf. ‘He sent word to me last night that, perceiving the ruin of his cause, he has abdicated his headship of the Order of Wizards, and he pledges to destroy his forces. When my errand here is complete, I will go to Isengard to collect him, and bring him back over the Sea to stand judgement.’

‘What, then, of Sauron himself?’ asked Elrond. ‘You said that your victory was not utter.’

‘I can destroy the physical substance of the Ring,’ said Fëanor, ‘but to destroy an Ainu for ever is beyond even my power. He is, however, greatly weakened; a small force should suffice to capture him and bring him to stand judgement in Valinor.’

‘I take it,’ said Elrond, ‘that you do not intend to be among this force.’

‘No,’ said Fëanor. ‘I am not needed. I mean, this one you’re calling the Dark Lord of Middle-earth once got beat up by Celegorm’s dog. You and I, Elrond, are going to find my son.’

* * *

‘I don’t know that I like this Fëanor so much, Mr. Frodo,’ said Sam to Frodo quietly that night, as they sat in the Hall of Fire listening to the Elves’ singing. ‘He’s not like the other Elves. He’s a bit frightening, really.’

‘I know,’ said Frodo, laughing. ‘He takes some getting used to. But he’s a friend, and he’s been enormously helpful. Think of what would have been if he hadn’t shown up. We might have had to take the Ring to Mordor ourselves!’

‘Well, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam said, ‘I sure am glad it didn’t come to that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gratuitous Infinity War reference is proof that this is Not a Serious Fic.
> 
> Fëanor's pronunciation of Sauron's name is the way it would have been pronounced prior to a pronunciation shift in Quenya that Fëanor opposed due to the way it changed the pronunciation of his mother's name (Therindë/Serindë).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor does not simply walk into Mordor.
> 
> He flies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, I've decided to extend this fic. I'm afraid Maglor doesn't show up until the next chapter, and the tone is becoming slightly more serious. _Slightly._
> 
> Rating upgraded for language.

Seven more days passed, and on the first of January they were due to depart: Frodo and the other hobbits would return to the Shire, accompanied by Gandalf. Aragorn, Boromir, and a company of the Elves of Rivendell would head southwards. Elrond and Fëanor were destined for parts unknown. Ere sunrise Frodo said good-bye to Bilbo, and the Lady Arwen embraced Aragorn as she bid him farewell—and Aragorn it was, for Strider was gone, and in that Ranger’s place stood the very image of the ancient Kings of Men. His sword had been reforged; he now called it Andúril, the Flame of the West, and in him was a majesty to make even Sauron tremble.

Only Fëanor was missing.

‘Where is he?’ wondered Elrond aloud. ‘You may all go ahead,’ he told the others assembled: ‘each of you has a long road ahead of him, whatever the destination. Knowing Fëanor, he might be a while.’

But even as Elrond spoke Fëanor appeared behind them, apparently dressed for battle, although his armour was so ostentatious as to appear ceremonial. His mail-shirt was _mithril_ ; his breast-plate and shield perfectly polished, each emblazoned with the symbol of his House; and his helmet was topped with a tall red plume. He was glowing brightly enough to throw shadows in the pre-dawn twilight.

‘There you are,’ he said. Then, gesturing at their heavy packs, he added, ‘What’s this?’

‘Provisions,’ said Pippin, patting his own bulging bag. ‘We made it the whole way here without second breakfast; you can hardly expect us to do it on the way back!’

‘I would like to know why you have no provisions, and are wearing armour at that!’ said Elrond. ‘It is a long journey, and ours will be the longest of all.’

‘So it would be,’ said Fëanor, ‘if we were walking. Which we are not. Come, my ship is parked just at the top of the ravine. If you’re headed to deal with Sauron, I’ll give you a ride to the Black Gate; hobbits, alas, are on their own. The Shire is rather out of my way.’

‘Your _ship_?’ inquired Bilbo. ‘Back in the Shire, ships sail on water—well, actually, in the Shire, ships don’t sail at all. We hobbits have never been terribly fond of the Sea.’

‘The word “ship” is more of a metaphor,’ said Fëanor. ‘You were singing about Eärendil just the other night. Surely you didn’t think there’s _water_ up there in the Void?’

‘I guess not,’ said Bilbo, ‘though most of that poem is just an adaptation of what I’ve read. To be honest with you, I never thought too much about what the ship and such actually looked like.’

They said a final round of good-byes and headed up the hill to where Fëanor’s ship was waiting. In form it resembled ordinary sailing vessels somewhat, though like Vingilot in Bilbo’s song, it was made of metal and glass, and bore neither sail nor oar. It hovered motionlessly a few feet above the ground, melting the snow beneath it, and it emitted a soft glow not unlike that which came from Fëanor himself. A gang-plank led down from the open door.

‘Rather more comfortable than Eärendil’s, I think,’ said Fëanor. ‘I’m glad to see they’ve made _some_ advancements without me, though I’m afraid the guns on this one aren’t quite Ancalagon-tier, since I had to make do with fusion power instead of a quasi-infinite radiation source. _My_ quasi-infinite radiation source, by the way,’ he added bitterly, and briefly a darkness passed across his face not unlike that that had overtaken Bilbo at the sight of the Ring.

‘I want to go with you,’ said Frodo suddenly, the words coming unexpectedly, almost unbidden, to his lips. ‘I don’t know why, but I’ve got this unshakeable feeling I’ve a bigger part to play in this quest yet.’

‘To me that seems unwise,’ said Elrond. ‘We are headed for the Dark Lord’s door-step; it is no place for hobbits, least of all your friends whom I cannot seem to separate from you.’

‘Strange as it may seem, my heart counsels me that Frodo go with you also,’ said Gandalf. ‘I know not why, save for the feeling that the wheels of the world are often moved by small hands. And since I know already that no counsel, no matter how wise, shall separate them from their friend, the other hobbits may come if they so wish, and I shall go with you also.’

‘Of course we’ll come!’ said Pippin, as though he were speaking of a party in Hobbiton and not the apprehension of the Lord of Mordor.

* * *

‘Where are you going?’ asked Elrond.

The ship had risen high into the air and sailed between the peaks of the Misty Mountains before turning south; now they were speeding along the Vales of Anduin with the speed of a Great Eagle. But the black mountain wall of Mordor was still only a shadow on the horizon, and they were descending already.

‘Lothlórien,’  said Fëanor. ‘I figured my niece would want to participate, whether or not she wants to see _me_ personally.’

‘This seems like a bad idea,’ said Elrond, sighing.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t a _good_ idea. Galadriel was waiting for them when the ship came to rest at the foot of Caras Galadhon. She strode uninvited aboard the ship when Fëanor opened the door, tall, beautiful, and furious. She and Fëanor spoke rapidly in the High-Elven tongue; Frodo had to ask Gandalf for a translation later.

‘How did you get in here?’ she asked him. ‘This realm is shielded so that none may enter without my leave. For that matter, who let you out of Mandos? Certainly no one in his right mind, with all due respect to the Valar.’

‘My return to Middle-earth is a long story,’ said Fëanor, ‘but our entry into Lothlórien is a shorter one.’ He held up his hand to reveal the One Ring upon his finger, the writing upon it burning with a fiery light. ‘One Ring to rule them all, remember?’

Galadriel slapped him backhanded across the face. Nenya’s jewel left a long scratch across his cheek below the eye. ‘How _dare_ you,’ she said. ‘Do you have any _clue_ what you’ve done? The entire army of Mordor must be on its way here as we speak.’

‘There’s no need to be so… _cold_ ,’ said Fëanor, grinning for an instant before regretting it. ‘The entire army of Mordor is dead.’

‘If that was a quip about the Grinding Ice, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear it,’ said Galadriel, ‘so that all the Kinslayings remain firmly on _your_ head. But what do you mean, the armies of Mordor are _dead_?’

‘Dead, or otherwise useless to Thauron,’ said Fëanor, ‘which you’d know if you’d even _opened_ my letter. I also wouldn’t have been able to walk into Lothlórien if you’d brought me your Ring so that I could free it from the power of the One.’

‘Frankly, I didn’t expect that Elrond would be stupid enough to let you anywhere near _Sauron’s_ Ring,’ she said, hitting the _S_ sound with extra ferocity. Elrond looked like he was trying to disappear by sheer willpower.

‘Erm,’ said Elrond timidly at last, ‘his work on the Ring did kill all nine Nazgûl without anyone needing to leave Imladris, not to mention preserving the Three independently of the One. Doesn’t justify him _wearing_ it, by any means, though he claims to be unaffected by it.’

‘I _am_ unaffected,’ said Fëanor. ‘I’m wearing it more as a trophy than anything else, though it does have its uses. Such as ordering all the orcs in Mordor to kill themselves, so we can simply walk in and arrest Sauron. Which we’re going to do now, if you want to come.’

‘You’re certainly not doing it _without_ me,’ said Galadriel.

* * *

 From the air, Mordor did not seem as awful as it would have from the ground. The Ered Lithui and even Mount Doom itself had a certain rugged beauty, and looking at it a certain way, one could almost envision the fair land that might have been but for the corruption of the Enemy. Even the Dark Tower was magnificent, though unlovely: nearly as high as the mountain beside which it stood, an immense mass of spires and ramparts and great courts, iron and adamant from its deepest foundations to its bitterest crown. It loomed before them as they approached, and their ship floated, small and insignificant, beside its bulk.

Fëanor pressed a button on his console, and the view through the front window was replaced by another image: a tall armoured figure half hidden in shadow and seated upon a throne of obsidian. With a start, Frodo realised whom he was looking at, and was suddenly thankful this was only an image—though he could not say how Fëanor had called it up.

‘Same frequency as the palantíri,’ said Fëanor, as if answering his question (and likely a question everyone had at that moment), though Frodo did not quite understand the answer.

Then Aragorn stood forth, and drew Andúril, and held it for Sauron to see, saying, ‘Here is the Sword that was Broken, and I Elendil’s heir. Come forth! and let justice be done upon thee. For wrongfully thou hast made war upon the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, and therefore the Lords of Elves and Men, in the name of the Valar and of He who made them, demand that thou shouldst atone for thine evil, and depart then for ever.’

Sauron only laughed. ‘Many defeats I have endured, and never have I surrendered yet,’ he said. ‘I will not humble myself before any of you, least of all a mortal who weareth yet no crown, no matter in whose name he presume to demand my atonement. But give me my Ring, and I will leave the Westlands in peace for an Age. This I swear.’

No one answered. Instead Fëanor threw a lever, and the ship lurched backwards, causing Frodo to stumble. He turned then sharply, and raced toward the crown of the Mountain, bringing the ship to a halt above the vast caldera where the fires of the Earth bubbled and smoked. He then rose from his seat, and opened the door. Noxious fumes and hot, acrid smoke filled the ship.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Elrond. ‘You’re going to kill the mortals with those fumes!’

‘Relax,’ said Fëanor. ‘This’ll only take a moment.’ He turned to face the image of Sauron, and removed the Ring from his finger, showing it to the Dark Lord.

‘This Ring?’ he asked, holding it over the lava. ‘If you want it, come and get it!’

‘Fool!’ said Sauron. ‘None can give up my Ring willingly, not here in the heart of my realm. You cannot cast it into the Fire.’

‘Do you know whom you’re talking to?’ asked Fëanor. ‘If I wanted a magic ring, I’d make one myself. At least _my_ creations can survive being thrown in a volcano.’

(With horror, Frodo realised what he was talking about.)

Sauron considered this for a moment, then gave a defeated sigh. He rose slowly from his throne, and his image in the front window vanished. Fëanor shut the door. A minute later, Sauron appeared on the roof of the Barad-dûr, hands raised over his head, and Fëanor landed the ship beside him. Elrond, Galadriel, and Gandalf escorted him on board.

‘Let’s lose the stupid armour,’ said Fëanor, and even as he spoke, the writing on the Ring (now back on his finger) flared, and Sauron’s armour broke and clattered to the ground. Beneath the suit of steel the Dark Lord wore a form that had once been fair but was now ruined: what remained of his flaming red hair was torn and matted, and a thick scar ran the length of his body from his forehead to his left foot, as though he had been torn in half lengthwise and sewn back together. His hands were withered and blackened, and one was missing a finger. His ears were pointed, more so than an Elf’s; once they might have given him a cat-like or wolfish look, but scarred and torn as they were they made him look more like an Orc.

‘Ugh,’ said Fëanor. ‘I see why you wore it.’ He snapped his fingers, and Sauron’s fair form was restored: his scars healed, his hair made long and thick, his finger replaced, his skin recovering a faint Elvish glow. The Dark Lord looked down in wonder at himself.

‘Thank you,’ he said to Fëanor, surprised. ‘It’s been far too long since I was pretty.’

‘I didn’t do it for your sake,’ retorted Fëanor. ‘I did it so I wouldn’t have to look at you anymore.’ He snapped again, and ropes of fiery-golden light lashed themselves around Sauron’s wrists and ankles, yanking him violently into the nearest chair.

‘Ow,’ said the Dark Lord.

‘Shut up,’ said Fëanor, and an additional ribbon of golden light was bound across Sauron’s mouth.

* * *

So as to frighten fewer Gondorians, they left the ship in Osgiliath, which had been occupied only by a small garrison ever since the servants of the Enemy had fled, and rode into Minas Tirith on horseback. Since Aragorn had not had the chance to win back his birthright by a great feat of valour, the approach to the city was carefully orchestrated to make him look at least somewhat responsible for the victory: he rode at the head of the party alongside a conspicuously chained Sauron. The wise of the city saw the Elves riding behind him and guessed what had actually happened, and the historically minded probably thought of Ar-Pharazôn, but the hero’s welcome received by the returning King was hardly less therefor.

They made a great show of casting Sauron into the city’s dungeons, though in truth it was only the binding power of the Ring that held him; and Aragorn, who had definitely thought of Ar-Pharazôn, forbade any of the guards to speak to their prisoner on pain of death. He did not remain there long, at any rate: a few days later he was removed from the city in the dead of night and marched off to Dol Amroth, under a heavy guard that included Galadriel and Glorfindel.

They remained in Minas Tirith for several months. Arwen arrived some time after Sauron’s departure, and immediately threw herself into the negotiations with the Stewards surrounding Aragorn’s kingship. She was much better at it than Aragorn himself, although her appearance did not necessarily improve his popularity among some of the common folk; Frodo could distinctly recall overhearing the words ‘elf-fucker’ on more than one occasion while walking the streets—once, rather ironically, in Sindarin. As things were, it appeared that Aragorn would be crowned when Spring came, although his position would probably remain mostly ceremonial until Denethor’s death. Given the old Steward’s age, Aragorn seemed quite content with this, especially considering that Elrond had given his consent for him and Arwen to marry following the coronation.

On a cold day in mid-February word reached Minas Tirith that the ship bearing Sauron had embarked for the West, and his threat was taken away from Middle-earth for ever. The Steward declared a holiday, and there was great rejoicing throughout the White City, but amid the merriment Elrond called Fëanor to him, and the look in his face was grave.

‘Now that Sauron is removed from Middle-earth,’ said he, ‘we require no more the binding power of the Ring to hold him. It must now be destroyed.’

‘No,’ said Fëanor. ‘For then he would be destroyed as well, and whatever terrible things I have done in my life, I will not slay a prisoner bound for his trial, not though he were the Dark Lord himself.’

‘That I must concede,’ said Elrond, ‘though my heart foresees that much evil may yet come of such mercy. But at least, then, lock the ring away, or cast it into a deep abyss, or into the Sea, or send it to the West with its master.’

‘I will bring the Ring West when I return to Valinor,’ said Fëanor, ‘but while I remain in Middle-earth it may yet serve me. I told thee it could offer me nothing, but that was untrue. There is one thing in Middle-earth I still desire; or, more precisely, there are three things.’

‘Damn you, Fëanor,’ said Elrond. ‘We’re going to look for _Maglor_ , not your stupid shiny rocks.’

‘The way I see it,’ said Fëanor, ‘it is _failure_ to retrieve the Silmarils that will damn me. Besides, we may look for both Maglor and the Silmarils; seeking one, we may find the other. In fact, didn’t you say that he had set out for the East? Because right now the Ring is telling me there’s a Silmaril somewhere near Erebor…’

‘Oh, _no_ ,’ said Elrond, shaking his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Arkenstone is definitely not a Silmaril in the "real" Tolkien-verse, but it is for the purposes of this ridiculous AU.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You came here expecting more light-hearted and ridiculous shenanigans from your favourite sassy Prince of the Noldor. Unfortunately, the One Ring has a mind of its own, and the tone of this (certainly by the end) got a bit darker than I intended. Sorry about that.

After the pomp and circumstance of Aragorn’s coronation, his wedding was a subdued affair: he and the Lady Arwen said their vows in the private garden of the Citadel, with only Elrond, Galadriel, Fëanor, Gandalf, the Steward’s sons, and the hobbits in attendance. Aragorn, declaring that he had had enough of ceremony for a few years, had asked that he and Arwen be wed ‘according to the Elvish custom’, but Elrond had told him that such weddings were not actually the custom among the Elves.

‘I do not know what rumors may run among Men,’ he said, ‘but in times of peace and plenty such as these, the Eldar do not normally marry without ceremony. It can be done, and the bond thus formed is no less unbreakable, but it is not exactly considered, ah, good manners.’

Fëanor smirked.

‘Meaning, no doubt, that _you_ did it,’ Elrond said to him.

‘What else did you expect?’ asked Fëanor. ‘We were a few hundred miles from civilisation, and we were both underage. My father was furious when he found out, of course: he made us repeat our vows with the proper ceremony when she turned fifty, despite the fact that she’d been living in our house for nearly two Years by then.’ He smiled at the ancient memory, the closest thing to happy that Frodo had seen him.

Elrond’s expression suddenly grew darker. ‘Have you seen her?’ he asked. ‘Since you…returned?’

‘No,’ answered Fëanor, his smile vanished. ‘Nor does she know I have returned at all; I asked the Valar not to tell her until I could do so myself, and that I will not do until I find Maglor. When I left she begged me to leave her one son, and in my pride I refused her. Now fate has left one son for the both of us, and I cannot face her until I bring him home.’

Elrond did not speak aloud in answer, but he looked at Fëanor as if they spoke mind to mind.

‘Perhaps if I fulfil my oath,’ mused Fëanor aloud, ‘the others may be released from Mandos.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Elrond.

So they gathered in the garden, and Galadriel gave to Aragorn a brilliant green jewel: the Elessar of Eärendil, to be a token of the everlasting friendship and renewed kinship between Elves and Men. ‘Arwen’s mother, my daughter Celebrían, passed over the Sea many years ago,’ she said, ‘so I give you this gift in her stead.’

‘Alas!’ said Aragorn, ‘my father is dead, and my father’s father likewise, but through them has come to me a gift more precious than any jewel.’ Then Boromir brought to him the crown of the Queens of old, and Aragorn took it and placed it upon Arwen’s head, and said, ‘Let this be the wedding-gift of Arathorn to his son’s bride, for no lesser thing shall do.’

Then Elrond took his daughter’s hand, and set it in Aragorn’s, and looked at each of them in turn as though he spoke to them in their minds. ‘Let it be done,’ he said aloud at last. He wept freely as he released her hand.

Arwen spoke her vows in the Ancient Tongue. ‘My word hear thou, Eru Allfather,’ she said, ‘that I take Aragorn son of Arathorn to be my husband, and freely give him my troth and love undying, in soul and in body, unto the world’s—‘til death do us part. Upon the holy mountain witness my vow and remember, Varda Queen of the Stars.’

‘And my word hear thou, Eru Allfather,’ answered Aragorn, ‘that I take Arwen daughter of Elrond to be my wife, and freely give her my troth and love undying, in soul and in body, ‘til death do us part. Upon the holy mountain witness my vow and remember, Manwë Lord of the Airs.’

‘Well, now it is done,’ said Gandalf when they had placed the rings upon one another’s fingers. ‘You are man and wife, and all your labours and long waiting are come to fulfilment. The blessing of the Valar upon your days!’

‘All hail the King and Queen of Gondor!’ said Fëanor, grinning. ‘May their days be fair—and their nights fairer!’ Boromir stifled a laugh. Elrond glared at Fëanor.

‘What?’ he said defensively. ‘It’s a customary Noldorin wedding toast!’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Galadriel.

* * *

They feasted and drank long into the night, yet at the crack of dawn Elrond and Fëanor were already gone from the city, riding back to Osgiliath where Fëanor had left his flying ship so many days before. Thence they flew with great speed to the neighbourhood of the Lonely Mountain, though as before, they did not land too close to civilisation. It took them longer to walk from their landing-place to the mountain itself than it had to fly all the way from Gondor, so that it was near sunset on the second day of their journey when they approached the gates of Dáin’s kingdom.

‘Halt! Who goes there?’ shouted the Dwarven sentry who greeted them there.

‘Only two travellers in need of food and rest,’ answered Elrond.

‘Then you’d best turn back to Dale,’ said the Dwarf. ‘We don’t like your kind much around here.’

‘No,’ corrected Fëanor, ‘you don’t like _Elwë_. Join the club.’

‘Who is Elwë?’ asked the Dwarf. ‘For that matter, who are you? We don’t see many Elves in these parts, and even fewer Elvish friends.’ In answer Fëanor opened his cloak to reveal the star of his House upon the breast of his robes.

‘Why do you wear that symbol?’ asked the sentry. ‘That star is graven upon the western door of Khazad-dûm!’

‘It is the symbol of my House,’ answered Fëanor. ‘My grandson Celebrimbor must have drawn it upon your doors when he and Narvi made them.’

This dwarf may have been ignorant of Thingol’s birth-name, but he knew the name of Celebrimbor, and of his even more legendary ancestor. ‘Lord Fëanor!’ he exclaimed, beside himself to meet so famous a figure. ‘I could hardly be more surprised if you said you were Mahal himself! What brings you to the Lonely Mountain?’

‘Curiosity, mostly,’ said Fëanor. ‘I heard much about your people from Tyelpe while I was in Mandos, but I’ve not gotten the chance to meet any of you but briefly.’ This was not, technically, untrue.

The Dwarf shook his head. ‘I would take that offer, were it up to me,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t the authority to allow Elves to pass these gates. I will inform my captain of your coming.’

But at that moment a Dwarf came running from inside the Mountain, and the Elves saw that it was Glóin, one of the attendees of the Council. ‘It’s alright,’ he said to the sentry. ‘Any friend of Master Elrond’s is welcome in Erebor. But that,’ he added, seeing the Ring on Fëanor’s finger, ‘you must leave at the door. It is a thing of evil, and we will not have it in our home.’

‘No,’ said Fëanor. ‘It is precious to me, and I will not be parted from it, nor allow any other to touch it.’

‘Then you will not enter into the Mountain,’ said Glóin. ‘The Ring of the Enemy shall not pass these gates.’

‘The Enemy is vanquished,’ said Fëanor. ‘The Ring is mine, and with it I will pass whether thou willest or no.’ With those words he seemed to grow tall beyond measurement, towering over the Dwarves in a form of dreadful majesty, too terrible and too brilliant for mortal eyes to long endure. He strode calmly through the gates and into the Mountain, and none dared hinder him. Elrond ran after him, panic rising in his chest.

‘Fëanor,’ he said sternly, catching up with him, ‘what in the name of all the Valar was _that_?’

‘I do not wish to make enemies of the _Khazâd_ , but I will not be hindered by them,’ said Fëanor.

‘I’m beginning to think their concern is entirely warranted,’ said Elrond. ‘You must stop wearing that Ring. It ought to have been destroyed long ago.’

‘I will destroy it when I have recovered this Silmaril, and no sooner,’ answered Fëanor.

‘No,’ said Elrond. ‘You will destroy it now. Come, we’re going back to Orodruin.’ He grabbed Fëanor by the wrist and began to turn back toward the entrance.

‘Go then, if thou wilt,’ said Fëanor, and Elrond was thrown back as if struck by an invisible blow. He landed on his back several paces away, stunned. Slowly he rose, and turned away, and walked back out of the Lonely Mountain. Fëanor continued on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wedding ceremony, particularly the form of the vows, is my own version of an Eldarin (and later, with some modifications, Númenórean) wedding based on information in LaCE. The resemblance of certain parts of the vows to parts of the Oath of Fëanor is not at all coincidental (presuming that the standard Eldarin wedding vows were well-known to the oath-takers, and most people's only experience with solemn and unbreakable oaths theretofore). When Arwen nearly says 'unto the world's end' ( _tenn' ambar-metta_ in the original Quenya), this is her accidentally repeating the Elven version; the Mannish version has 'til death do us part' (or whatever Quenya phrase roughly translates to that), a phrase more appropriate for mortals—and now, as well, for Arwen.


	4. Chapter 4

Elrond sat at a table in the far, dark corner of a Dalish tavern, the hood of his cloak drawn up so that no one might see who he was. Elves were rare enough in these parts, and he in particular was not unknown in any corner of the West. He thought about ordering a drink, but decided against it: even the strongest of human liquors would have little effect on him.

His trust of Fëanor had proved misguided. He had claimed the Ring in the end, as everyone who used its power was bound to do. There had been a part of him that had hoped that Fëanor—perhaps alone of the Children of Illúvatar—could overcome Sauron’s darkness. Perhaps that part of him had not even been wrong. But the so-called greatest of the Noldor had plenty of darkness of his own.

There was nothing to do now but hope. All the armies of Middle-earth could not have stopped Sauron without the Ring; they would do nothing at all against the new Ring-lord. He consoled himself with the fact that Fëanor had never been known to desire power. It was not much of a consolation.

 _Elbereth,_ he prayed, _just help him get what he wants, so he’ll not cause too much damage in the process._

It was not the sort of prayer for which he expected an answer from the Valar. Answer came, instead, from another hooded figure that entered the tavern some time later and sat down across from him. He knew who it was without needing to see his face.

‘Maglor,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Maglor in Sindarin. ‘I do not know what it was that led me here, but I am glad to see you again, my son.’

‘As I am glad to see you,’ said Elrond in the same language, ‘though you may be less glad to hear the news I bear. The good news is that your father has returned to life. The bad news is that he has claimed Sauron’s Ring, and has now invaded Erebor in search of—’ He cut himself off abruptly, realising that in the unlikely event that Maglor did not already know what treasure the dwarven kingdom possessed, he did not want to wake his Oath.

Somewhat to his surprise, Maglor only laughed. ‘Even in these remote parts there is rumour of the one who has returned from beyond the Sea to cast the Dark Lord from his throne,’ he said. ‘As for the treasure in Erebor, the similarities did not escape my notice, but the possibility had always seemed implausible to me. Implausible enough, I suppose, to keep the Oath asleep.’

‘Fëanor seems to be quite certain.’

‘If that is so, then I have no doubt that he is right,’ said Maglor. ‘Of course, you know what that obligates me to do, as much as I would like to avoid it.’

‘I will not stop you,’ said Elrond. ‘The Silmarils, for all their metaphysical significance, are Fëanor’s by right, and they are certainly not doing anyone any good where they are. _That_ one especially—’ he gestured out the small window, where the evening star shone brilliantly in the western sky— ‘is a reminder which I, for one, would rather not have. I would only aim to stop the shedding of blood in the process, and also to separate your father from the Ring.’

‘Admirable goals,’ mused Maglor, ‘though perhaps contradictory, if I think about it. If one wishes to obtain a priceless treasure without bloodshed, there are few better tools for the task than Thauron’s Ring. For Thauron may be evil, but he is not by nature violent: war has ever been his last resort, when he is discovered, hemmed in, or at the brink of defeat. Then he discovers that he is not a bad tactician, and quite inventive with respect to war-machines; but he will never be the first to draw a sword.’

‘The same can hardly be said of Fëanor.’ Maglor, of course, knew the incident to which Elrond was referring.

‘How many swords has he drawn since possessing the Ring?’

‘None,’ said Elrond.

‘And how many massacres has he accidentally begun? How many ships burned?’

‘None and none.’

‘How many armies of Balrogs has he charged head-on and alone?’

‘None,’ said Elrond, ‘though I have been meaning to ask him if he could do anything about Moria while he’s here.’

‘Then, according to the evidence, the Ring has actually _improved_ my father’s worst personality traits,’ said Maglor. ‘Which does not entirely surprise me: if there is one thing he sorely lacks, it is subtlety, and that, at least, your so-called Dark Lord possesses in abundance.’

‘I am merely thankful he has not had the opportunity to draw any swords, or burn any ships, yet,’ said Elrond. ‘I would like to part him from the Ring before he does.’

‘What need will he have?’ asked Maglor. ‘It is you who say that all the armies in Middle-earth could not defeat the Ring-lord.’

‘They could not.’

‘How is that?’ asked Maglor. ‘Shall the Dark Lord raise his ringed hand, and all your soldiers fall down dead? Shall he conjure a blast to level Minas Tirith? Certainly such weapons, and worse, exist—or else Beleriand would still be with us—and they are probably within Thauron’s power to make, yet he has not used them in all the wars we have fought with him. No—the Ring’s first power is _fear_ : fear you have yourself helped to inspire with your talk of the Ring-lord defeating all the armies of Middle-earth. It is true: armies avail one little if they dare not fight.’

‘What does it matter?’ asked Elrond, a little irritated by Maglor’s casual deconstruction of his assumptions about the Ring. ‘I have no army, except the guard at Imladris, and I would not send an army against Fëanor if I had one.’

‘But Erebor does,’ said Maglor. ‘I began by saying that the Ring could help Fëanor bloodlessly reclaim the Silmaril, and now I have proved it. The Dwarves under the Mountain are proud and headstrong, and they will guard the jewel interred with their late king jealously. But they are not utterly stupid. When they see a High Elf of Valinor, a figure older than Durin the Deathless, whose name is written in every history book in Middle-earth, come into their kingdom bearing the weapon of an Enemy most fear to name—will they resist him? They would give him the keys to the Mountain if he asked, without a drop of blood spilled, and they will all be quite thankful when all he asks for is a shiny rock that has been languishing in a tomb for the past sixty years.’

‘They will not give up the Arkenstone—Silmaril or no—so easily as you think,’ said Elrond. ‘We ride for Erebor at dawn.’

* * *

The throne room in Erebor was not difficult to find, and no one appeared to stop Fëanor from reaching it, so he entered unannounced and knelt before the throne, making sure the Ring was visible. The king, an old, white-bearded dwarf, smiled bemusedly at his intentionally ironic display of obeisance.

‘Rise, uninvited guest,’ said he. ‘What business brings you before Dáin Ironfoot, King under the Mountain?’

‘I require not your invitation,’ said Fëanor, rising, ‘but I will ask now for your welcome all the same. I am sure that by now the rumour of who I am has reached you, and my reputation, at any rate, precedes me by several thousand years.’

‘It has, and it does,’ answered Dáin.

‘You know, then,’ said Fëanor, ‘what a natural friend I am to your race, my behaviour at your gates notwithstanding; our interests are akin, and with my help Erebor may produce such wonders of craft that my own people in Tirion beyond the Sea shall wonder to hear of them. And you shall have my everlasting friendship, if you grant me the small boon that I desire, a trifle you possess that belongs to me by right. But if you refuse me, there is no law nor love that shall defend you, and you shall find out what a terrible enemy I can be. As he did whom you deigned to call the Dark Lord of Middle-earth.’ He held up his hand, and brandished the Ring before the Dwarven-king.

Dáin’s face betrayed neither fear nor anger. ‘What is this boon, this trifle we possess, that you say is yours?’ he asked simply.

‘There is a jewel,’ answered Fëanor, ‘which you have interred with your late king Thorin Oakenshield. It is not what you think it is: it is an heirloom not of this Mountain, but of the Blessed Realm in its Noontide, and the fates of Arda are bound in it and its siblings.’

Dáin knew enough of the old legends to know what Fëanor was talking about. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ he asked, shocked, ‘that the Arkenstone is in fact a _Silmaril_?’ Had he been told this by any lesser authority than the Silmarils’ maker himself, he likely would have dismissed it out of hand.

‘I did not quite believe it myself, at first,’ said Fëanor, ‘but now that I am here, so near it, I am as sure of it as I am of my own existence. Somehow a Silmaril, which I wrought with my own hands, and which my father and my sons died defending, has passed through the dungeons of the Enemy and the fires of the Earth into your possession. And now you will give it back to me.’

The king considered this for a long while. ‘We would not sell the Arkenstone,’ he said at last, ‘artefact of the Days of Bliss or no, to anyone, for any price. Nor would we break a king’s tomb for fear of the Dark Lord himself. But among the Khazâd the works of one’s hands are sacred, as they seem to be to you, and for this reason only we will give you your Silmaril, if you can satisfy us that it is indeed what you claim.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fëanor, and Dáin seemed taken aback—gratitude was not a response anyone expected from the Spirit of Fire. ‘A thousand times thank you. Mahal’s blessing upon you to the end of your days.’

‘And on you also,’ answered the Dwarven-king. It was strange to wish the blessing of Mahal upon one who had met him personally.

* * *

The Dwarves would not let him anywhere near Thorin’s tomb, deep in the Mountain’s heart, and the hour was late, so he was given comfortable—if rather dimly lit—quarters in the palace (if there could be distinct buildings in an underground city), and told they would come for him in the morning. Fëanor was not known for his patience, but he had not been so close to a Silmaril since…he chose not to think about it. He could wait another night.

He dreamt he was in Aulë’s workshop in Valinor, sitting at a workbench with the Vala himself across from him. The Smith wore the form he had typically worn among his Elvish students, so Noldorin in his features that the rare Aulendili from the other kindreds were nearly offended: bronzed and black-haired, well-muscled, with a face full of hard lines, like chiseled stone. He wore only leather pants and an apron. He never bothered with safety equipment, nor even to pull his hair back into a ponytail—a subtle but distinct reminder that for all he looked like an Elf, he was not.

The silver light that streamed in through the windows was distinctly Telperion’s; it was far too bright to be the new light who had taken the Silver Tree’s place. This place was only a memory, then; the Vala across from him was only a figment of his imagination.

‘I am not,’ said Aulë, answering his thought. ‘I am as real, and as really here, as you are, and this is really Valinor: Valinor as you remember it, yes, but also Valinor as it should have been.’

‘Why did you bring me here?’ asked Fëanor. ‘To rebuke me for my rudeness to your children?’

‘Hardly,’ said Aulë. ‘I am beyond rebuking you for rudeness, no matter how much you may deserve it at times; nor are the Khazâd my children. They are Eru’s children, even as you are, and I was only the instrument of their making.’

‘Against Eru’s will,’ said Fëanor, who might have expected this sort of theological waffle from Manwë, but not from his old teacher.

‘Against His _instructions_ ,’ corrected Aulë. ‘Nothing happens against His will. Indeed, nothing happens _without_ His will, and He is the maker of all things that are made, even the perversions of the Enemy. But precisely because we are made in His image, we find this truth painful to grasp; I am not even sure that I—who, of all the Valar, have a role most obviously (though not most) reminiscent of His—truly believe it in my inmost heart. I have certainly failed to impart it to a few of my students.’

‘Is this about the Silmarils?’ Fëanor asked, suspecting that he was one of the students in question.

‘Only if you think it is,’ replied Aulë. He wasn’t normally this cryptic. ‘Let me show you something. I will try to put it into a form comprehensible to the Eldarin mind.’

_An island. A lake. The springtime of the Earth. Strange beasts roam strange forests under the light of two lamps brighter than the Trees, and Aulë speaks with his student in the streets of an alien city._

Fëanor realised that he recognised the student—he seemed somehow younger, though the _fanar_ of the Ainur are all ageless, but this was Thauron, before he was Thauron.

_‘Master,’ asks Mairon, ‘why did the Allfather create the universe?’_

_‘How can I answer that?’ replies Aulë. ‘Even if I could ask him, I do not think I would be able to understand the answer.’_

_‘You understand the answer, I think,’ says Mairon, ‘because it is within you—as it is, in a smaller sense, within me. We are made in His image: we are Makers also, and you in particular are the Smith, the Craftsman of the Valar. You know what it is like to desire something which is both part of you and not part of you.’_

_‘I do,’ says Aulë._

_‘But we are finite,’ says Mairon, ‘and we live in Eä, which is also finite, so anything which is not part of us is necessarily part of the same limited whole with ourselves. The Father is infinite, and abides amid infinite non-being, so His act of Creation may go on forever. But when ours is complete, there is naught for us to do but rest from our labours.’_

_Aulë considers this a moment. ‘I suppose that is so,’ he says._

_‘And these Lamps,’ asks Mairon, ‘are now done, and perfect, and shall abide unchanging forever?’_

_‘Let us hope,’ says Aulë._

_‘I hope they do not.’_

_His master looks at him with a sudden look of great concern. ‘What did you say?’ he asks, unwilling to believe._

_‘I hope the Lamps fall,’ says Mairon, ‘as I hope all of this perfect, unchanging world falls. The Children are coming, and they too shall be made in the image of their Maker. They will want—nay, they will_ need _—to Make, to bring their own ideas into being. How will they do that, if we have given them a canvas with no room left to paint? In this world, there can be no creation without destruction.’_

_‘Where are you getting these ideas?’ asks Aulë, terrified that he already knows the answer._

_‘He is coming,’ says Mairon. ‘You are too late.’ From the North, a Darkness flashes across the sky, and Helcar falls…_

‘Why did you show me this?’ asked Fëanor. ‘You are surely not suggesting that I am like Thauron!’

‘I can think of a few ways that you are,’ said Aulë, ‘but no, I am showing you this because in this case, Mairon was _right_. Not about destruction, but about the infinity of creation. You have grown so proud of your greatest work that you have made it your last, and you have turned instead to destruction—to theft and murder—trying to get it back. In this way you are almost Mairon’s opposite—but neither extreme is good.’

‘What would you have me do?’ asked Fëanor.

‘I think you know.’

Fëanor looked down at his hands for a moment. Then, slowly, he took the Ring from his finger and laid it on the workbench. Aulë picked it up, and crushed it in his fist. When he opened his hand he held only a small, shapeless lump of gold, which he tossed unceremoniously across the room into a scrap-metal bin.

‘Well, that’s a start,’ he said.

* * *

Fëanor was still wearing the Ring when he woke. For a moment he doubted that his conversation with Aulë had been real, but he noted something different about the Ring itself. He became conscious of something dark and unpleasant, like a black, slimy snake coiled around his _fëa_ , that had now loosened its hold on him. Only now that he was free of it did he understand just how tightly it had bound him.

Once he had dressed, he took off the Ring and put it in his pocket.

A dwarf came to his room a few minutes later to lead him down to the forge, where Dáin was waiting with the so-called Arkenstone (a word that seemed to be a translation of _Silmaril_ into an archaic form of Westron). He was more certain than ever that it was a Silmaril, though it did not look like one—and the fact that a mortal was holding it was odd as well.

He took the stone from the Dwarven-king, raised it high above his head, and threw it against the stone floor with all his might. The outer layers—which seemed to be common diamond that had used the Silmaril as a seed crystal—shattered, and the brilliant jewel, unmarrable by any violence in the Kingdom of Arda, shone out from the rubble.

He picked it up. It did not burn him.

‘Behold,’ he said, holding up the Silmaril for the dwarves to see. ‘Touch it—lightly, please.’ Dáin extended a finger gingerly, and leapt back the moment he touched the jewel, swearing profusely in Khuzdul.

‘If that and the light do not convince you,’ said Fëanor—all the dwarves had averted their eyes, not able to bear looking on said light, while Dáin was nursing his burnt finger-tip— ‘I have a final demonstration.’ He took the Ring from his pocket and placed it on a nearby anvil, then touched the Silmaril to it. ‘Behold, the Silmaril will suffer the touch of no evil thing.’

Already, the Ring was beginning to glow red with heat. Soon it was yellow, then white, and at last it melted. Dáin looked in amazement at the little pool of molten gold in the hollow of the anvil.

‘You have satisfied me quite thoroughly,’ said the king. ‘The Silmaril shall be yours.’

‘No,’ said Fëanor. ‘You keep it.’

‘How—but—’ spluttered Dáin. ‘I thought there was an Oath or something.’

‘I hold my Oath fulfilled, at least as regards the Dwarves of Erebor,’ said Fëanor, ‘and now I give this Silmaril to you freely. I renounce my claim on it forevermore. I will make a still greater work in its stead.’ He laid the Silmaril down on a workbench.

He turned to the door to find his last surviving son staring at the scene in amazement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have given Sauron original motives that are not precisely canonical, if you consider what Tolkien wrote on the subject; however, the Motives essay is a fairly obscure bit of canon, and in a certain sense it isn't canon at all—because authorial intent does not equal canon, and from the in-universe perspective, where every piece of the Legendarium has its own detailed historiography (and putting that together is half the fun of reading), “Motives” is just Tolkien's _speculation_ on the subject. In-universe, what authoritative document on Sauron's motives could exist, unless it were written by Sauron himself? Obviously we don't have such a document (I'm sure that if Aragorn did find Sauron's diary amid the ruins of Barad-dûr, he would have had it burned without being opened), so Tolkien's motives essay can be viewed as suspect, and coloured by his own personal views.
> 
> Personally, I wanted a better reason why so many Aulendili went bad than ‘technology is bad’, and I found one—all of the Valar are sub-creators, but Aulë is the one who embodies creation most obviously, so among his Maiar and Elvish students there is a definite temptation to identify too closely with the Creator Himself—not necessarily and entirely a bad thing at first, since Man is made in the image of God, but pride goeth before the fall—and there is no greater form of pride than for a created being to forget that he is created. We see this play out originally with Melkor, but later with Mairon/Sauron and eventually with Fëanor, where pride in one's own works leads to rebelliousness.


End file.
